him the management of that difficult subject which would have satisfied herself, Duke she knew was capable of rushing wildly to the other side and contradicting everything she wished. The young trio in the schoolroom were quite unconscious of these wishes--even Mar, though he would betray occasionally, as he had done to Agnes, the instinct which revealed to him the precariousness of his own position, and the foregone conclusion in respect to him which existed in so many minds, was not always under the weight of that thought--and the boy did not think of himself at all when he helped in the concoction of Duke’s speech. All the most eloquent sentences were Mar’s--that one in particular about the attractions of the world, and the spirit of adventure, and how, though there was so much that drove him to more exciting pursuits, the needle in his heart (which was an uncomfortable metaphor but did not trouble these young critics) always pointed to home. Mar’s pale face flushed with pleasure when he read out this paragraph, the last words of which were drowned in the applauses of his companions. “Why, that’s poetry,” said Letty with a tear in her eye. “It’s much too grand for me,” said Duke, “it’s splendid, old fellow!” and the mingled pleasure of the author applauded and of the excitement of composition brought a flush all over the delicate boy, and forced the water to his eyes too. Mar was very manly, and would rather have died than cry like a girl--but it was too easy to bring the water to his eyes.